Under the Cajun Moon

by Mindy Starns Clark

  Nothing had been simple about getting to Les Halles, not from the moment Jacques started trying to find a ride in Charenton at one thirty to the moment he finally caught sight of St. Eustache Church, which was near Les Halles, at two twenty-five. In the past fifty-five minutes, despite a desperate need for expediency, Jacques had been held up first by one thing and then another. Unable to catch a ride with anyone heading to Paris, he finally had to hire a fiacre for the trip. The journey was harrowing to say the least, with several near-collisions and one sharp turn that Jacques thought would flip the carriage completely. They became mired in a bottleneck at the Paris city gates, and after being stuck for five minutes, Jacques finally told the driver he would pay now and go on foot from there. To Jacques’ astonishment, the man charged him thirty-five sous anyway, almost double what the fare should have been.

  Had everyone gone mad?

  Jacques had run as fast as he could through the busy streets of Paris after that, weaving among carts and people and horses and structures, even taking a detour down an alley when the street he needed was blocked by a flock of sheep. As church bells pealed in the distance, he hopped over fences and skirted along narrow walkways and banged his head on more than one low-hanging flowerpot. He kept going, edging his way through the throngs of people and vendors and animals. When he reached Les Halles, it seemed that all of France was crowded into the public meeting area, a collection of fortune seekers all straining to hear the words that were being spoken from a podium on the dais, words that would tell them whether or not they qualified for a golden statuette. Studying that dais now from a distance, Jacques could see that it held four men, all of whom he recognized, one of whom was Freneau.

  Jacques knew one thing. He had to get to M. Freneau whatever it took, even if it meant walking right up to the podium and handing him Papa’s letter there.

  Jacques tried to work his way through the crowd, but progress was nearly impossible. The closer he got, the more tightly people were packed in together. He pressed onward anyway, angering several. When he finally bumped into one fellow so hard that it knocked him over, the man jumped back up, grabbed Jacques by the collar, and threatened to punch him in the face if he didn’t find a spot and stay in it. Given that the fellow was nearly twice his size, Jacques thought it best to do as he said. There was a stone wall not far off, so Jacques offered to go over there. Once he was sitting atop that wall, at least he could see and hear what was happening on the stage—and maybe catch M. Freneau’s eye.

  John Law was addressing the crowd, talking about his Compagnie des Indes and how it was creating opportunities for more and more Europeans to join the colonies in the New World. It didn’t sound as though Jacques had missed much yet. As Law described a wondrous land filled with milk and honey, gold and diamonds, Indian kings and princesses, seafood-rich bays and vast lands of opportunity, the crowds began to respond—and not in a good way. They had heard it all before, the government’s near-constant plea for God-fearing, hardworking citizens to move to the Louisiana Territory and settle the French colony there. Problem was, no one wanted to go. Not only was the voyage arduous—and oftentimes deadly—but word had been coming back to France that the Louisiana Territory was nothing but a swampy wasteland, a mosquito-infested pit of muck and mire.

  “Enough about the New World. Tell us about the gold!” one man shouted, causing others around him to cheer.

  M. Law, a wiry fellow with a patrician nose and a long powdered wig, peered in the direction of the catcall and raised his hand.

  “Very well, my good fellow,” Law cried. “The gold it is.”

  To cheers, Law walked toward the far side of the dais, and as he went Jacques saw for the first time that the trunk was there—sitting right there—up on the stage! Jacques said a quick prayer that whatever was about to happen would not be irrevocable, that the mistake made this morning in retrieving the wrong trunk could still be fixed without causing all sorts of very public problems.

  As if in answer to that prayer, Law continued past the trunk, coming instead to a stop in front of a table that had been set up nearby. It was covered in a cloth, and as the crowd watched with great interest, Law bent down and pulled out from under the cloth three items, one by one, and set them on the table. First was a shiny gold platter, then a heavy gold candlestick, and finally a delicate gold medallion.

  At the sight of all of that finery, the crowd began to murmur among themselves.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, let us be frank,” Law said, crossing back to the center of the stage as the murmurs died down. “It is my understanding that rumors have been flying around town for several weeks, rumors that the royal goldsmiths have been carefully crafting two hundred fleur-de-lis statuettes, each one fashioned from solid gold. As you know, the fleur-de-lis is the very symbol of France and her monarchy, and as such is not a symbol to be taken lightly. Here to address this issue of these rumors is the royal goldsmith himself. I have invited him here today so that he may confirm or deny said rumors, for the record. Monsier?”

  The crowd clapped politely as the king’s goldsmith stepped forward, holding a polished wooden box and looking every bit as regal as the honor his high office bestowed.

  “As the royal goldsmith,” he said in a voice much softer than Law’s but every bit as solemn, “I am here to state, unequivocally, that my department was recently commissioned to create a number of identical, solid gold fleur-de-lis statuettes, each based on my original design, at the request of John Law.”

  “And where did you obtain the gold to create these statuettes?” Law asked him.

  “The gold was obtained as new from the Louisiana Territory and extracted from its ore, by amalgamation, under my direct supervision.”

  “And the quality of the gold derived from this ore? Was it sufficient?”

  “Yes, sir. The product given to us for this job, once assayed, ended up being as fine as the finest gold from the Spanish territories in the New World.”

  That earned another murmur from the crowd. Now that the top goldsmith in the entire country had just publicly confirmed that gold was being mined in the Louisiana Territory, M. Law’s claims to that very fact were given sudden validity. In an attempt to induce Parisians to become colonists, Law had already been circulating brochures and posters to that effect. Papa was skeptical, but M. Law’s literature claimed that when walking down a wooded path in the New World, one could simply bend over and scoop up fistfuls of gold and diamonds from the ground.

  “And this project concluded satisfactorily?” Law asked.

  “Indeed it did, monsieur.”

  “So, just to reiterate, you can confirm the rumors that two hundred gold statuettes were recently created right here in Paris?”

  “No, sir. I cannot.”

  Jacques sat forward, listening intently to what might come next.

  “Why is that?” Law asked, looking out at the crowd with such exaggerated confusion that Jacques realized this exchange was preplanned.

  “Because we did not make two hundred, sir. We made two hundred… and one.”

  With that, the royal goldsmith lifted up the box that he had been holding in his hands and presented it to M. Law. Law took it from him in delight, tilted it at an angle for all to see, and slowly opened the lid.

  There, nestled among rich blue protective fabric, lay a single fleur-de-lis statuette, an exact duplicate of the ones Jacques and Papa had been making for the past month.

  The crowd went insane. Though the statuette was small and decoratively austere, this was the item they had all been waiting for, the one that had brought them here today.

  “How do we win it?”

  “Who gets it?”

  “Am I qualified?”

  Voices called out from the crowd, but Law refused to continue until order had been restored. At last, as the din dropped back down, he held up one hand and spoke.

  “Monsieur, on behalf of the good citizens of Paris, I thank you for your honesty here today, your fine
design, and your impeccable workmanship.”

  As the man bowed to M. Law and then to the audience, everyone clapped. Jacques was still incredibly confused as to what was about to unfold next, but at least now he knew whose molds he and Papa had been using to make the statuettes. They had been created by none other than the royal goldsmith himself, who was just now crossing to the back of the stage to sit in one of a row of chairs waiting there.

  Law took the statuette from its box and held it high over his head, to the delight of the crowd.

  “Would you like one of these little things too?” he teased.

  The people went crazy, whistling and cheering and stomping their feet.

  “You can have one,” Law continued. “In fact, two hundred of you can each have one—though, if you don’t mind, I plan to keep this extra one myself, as a commemorative of this grand and glorious day.”

  Everyone laughed and cheered.

  “So how do you get one?” Law asked, looking around at the people who paid rapt attention as they waited for the man to answer his own question. “My dear friends, listen carefully, and I will tell you exactly how.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Sometimes in life there are moments so profoundly shocking or disturbing or frightening—moments where life and death intersect in the most earth-shattering ways—that once those moments happen, nothing can ever be the same.

  For me, seeing Sam was one of those moments.

  Had you asked me, prior to then, to rate my mental health on a scale, I would have given myself a good score, despite my dysfunctional childhood. But after seeing what had been done to Sam, after knowing that what had been done to him might have somehow been caused by me or my family, I don’t know that I didn’t slip all the way off that scale for a while. If I had been alone when I found him, I would have run to him. As it was, Travis had to physically restrain me, though at the time I didn’t understand why. I don’t think I ever made a sound. I remembered wanting to vomit but not even daring to do that. I just stood there with Travis’ arms wrapped tightly around me from behind, holding me in place as I tried to step closer, to crawl toward something, anything, that would turn back the clock and stop this from happening.

  I remembered the sound of Travis’ voice, his lips speaking softly at my ear, but I couldn’t recall what he said. Maybe my soul briefly left me. All I know was that I wasn’t even there in that room anymore. I was floating, sailing away, existing in some alternate reality, one where people you loved did not meet with violent ends.

  On the floor near Sam’s feet was a small triangle of blue gingham with a wisp of fluffy white fibers attached. I couldn’t tear my eyes from that sight, because somewhere in my mind I knew what that gingham belonged to, knew that it was wrong, somehow, to be there, torn and on the floor. Just like the image of Sam was wrong, broken and in that chair.

  I remember walking out of the apartment and wondering why Travis was wiping down the wall and the light switch. Once he pulled the door shut, again he used the tail of his T-shirt to wipe off the doorknob. I couldn’t understand why.

  I remember walking down the steps and out of the courtyard with his arm around me, firmly holding me up at the waist. His hold was strong and warm and I lost myself in it. Somehow foot stepped ahead of foot, over and over, until eventually we were inside the truck.

  I closed my eyes to the assault of headlights and car sounds and jazz music blaring from somewhere nearby. Leaning against the cold vinyl of the door, I went to sleep, an odd thing for a normal person to do, considering the situation. But I wasn’t normal anymore. I had had my moment, the one that changed everything, irrevocably forever.

  I don’t know how long I slept.

  When I awoke, it was to realize that I was being carried. At first I thought I was floating magically through the air, but then I realized that an arm was around my back and another under my knees and that the side of my face was pressed against the broad, muscular expanse of a man’s chest. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, I wondered if I was being kidnapped, if I was going to be tortured now. I was still wondering that as I fell asleep again.

  The next time I awoke, there were voices nearby, and I had a feeling they were talking about me. I tried to tell them I was awake, but before I could even do that, I had fallen asleep again.

  The next time I woke up, it was morning. I didn’t know where I was, but I didn’t have the energy to try to figure it out. Echoes of a different morning, one that had come before, bounced around in my brain: ringing phone, pounding door, dead man on the couch. This time, at least no phone rang. No one came and carted me off to jail. No one seemed to be here at all.

  I dozed for a while, waking now and then, and each time I did I felt a little more back to earth, a little more me again. At one point I wondered if I had had a nervous breakdown. Then I wondered if that term was even used anymore. Whatever it was, I knew that I had stood at the edge of an abyss—and, for a while at least, I had fallen in. Years ago, a girl from school maintained in debate that there was a bit of madness in all of us. I didn’t believe her then.

  I believed her now.

  My final awakening was markedly different than the ones that had come before. This time, when I came to consciousness, I simply knew certain things again. I knew that Travis and I had gone into Sam’s apartment and found him dead. I didn’t know where I was now, but I knew who I was, and that was more important anyway.

  Sitting up in the bed, I looked around, wondering how many more times I would have to awaken in strange places with no real knowledge of where I was and how I had come there. The room I was in was small and rustic. The only furniture was the single bed I had been sleeping on and a small wooden bedside table holding a lamp, a cup of water, and a Bible. The sheets were crisp and white, and with a jolt I realized I wasn’t in my clothes anymore. I was in a light cotton nightgown, with buttons down the front and sleeves gathered at the wrists. Someone had changed my clothes.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed and carefully attempted to stand. The room had one window and I walked to it now, my feet cold against the polished wood floor. At the window, I first peered through the sheer white curtains to see what looked like woods and trees outside. There didn’t seem to be any people out there, so I reached up and pulled aside the sheers for a better view.

  From what I could tell, I was in a cabin in the woods, though it wasn’t completely isolated because I could make out other rooflines among the trees. In the distance was the telltale sparkle of a body of water.

  Needing to use the restroom, I opened one of the doors, only to find myself looking into an empty closet. Closing that one, I crossed the room to the other door and swung it open. That led to a second room, one that was furnished as simply as the first, with a table and chair under the front window and the second, more cushioned chair in the corner next to another small table with only a lamp and a Bible. Besides a door that obviously led to the outside, there was one other door which I hoped was the bathroom and not another closet.

  I was about to open it and look when the door swung open and a woman stepped out, causing us both to jump. Before I could react any further, her face lit up in a smile.

  “You’re awake,” she said in a drawl so soft and melodic it was almost like a song. “How are you feeling, honey?”

  She looked to be in her forties, with sparkling green eyes and graying hair pulled into a soft braid on the back of her head.

  “Okay, I think.”

  “Do you know what day this is?”

  “It should be Wednesday,” I said, clearing my scratchy throat. “Is it?”

  “Yes. You’ve been here since last night.”

  “Where am I?”

  “I’ll let Travis explain that. Let me go get him.”

  Travis. So at least I hadn’t been kidnapped.

  “Can you point me to a restroom?”

  The woman gestured to the door she had just come out of, saying she had been putting a change of clothes,
a towel, and some toiletries in there for me.

  “Why don’t you shower and dress, and I’ll get you some breakfast and find Travis. He’s been very worried about you. He’ll want to know you’re all right.”

  I hesitated, afraid to ask the question that was burning to come out. Finally, I knew I had no choice.

  “This isn’t…this isn’t a mental hospital, is it?”

  The woman smiled, a melodic chuckle escaping her lips.

  “No, dear. It’s a retreat center. Though sometimes in the summer when the junior campers come, I’m tempted to seek out a mental hospital for myself.”

  With great relief I thanked her and went into the bathroom as she headed out the front door.

  The shower helped bring me further to life. Standing under the faucet, I let the hot water pound my back and shoulders, working off some of the tension, though washing away none of the grief. When I was finished, I pulled on a pair of jeans that were about the size of the woman I had just met and had to be belted at the waist. Given that they were about six inches too short, I simply rolled up the cuffs and turned them into capris. The shirt was a simple cotton button-down in a blue-and-green plaid. Black flip-flops that fit my feet well enough completed the outfit. Using the handful of toiletries there, I was able to brush my teeth, comb out my hair, and dab a little Vaseline on my lips. There was no other makeup, nor were there any hair products or tools, so I simply stepped back to get a look at myself in the mirror, knowing this was the best it was going to get.

  Studying my image, I was grateful for my naturally rosy lips and dark eyelashes that helped pull off my lack of makeup. Although I always wore my long hair straightened and sleek, already it was starting to dry into soft waves. Oh, well. In a way, it was a relief having no choice but to forgo my usual morning routine and just be who I was.

  After emerging from the bathroom, I opened the door and stepped outside. It was a beautiful day, with birds chirping and somewhere in the distance church bells ringing. Counting the dings, I discovered it was 11:00 a.m. I thought I could hear voices, so I walked around the side of the little cabin to find Travis and another man sitting at a table in the shade. Both of them stood when they saw me, a Southern gesture of good manners that I always appreciated. The man sat back down, but Travis came over to me and surprised me by giving me a big hug and asking me if I was okay.